The Road to Shēn Old Villa

Rain fell in a steady rhythm—soft, relentless—casting the city in a veil of gray and silence.

The hospital doors parted with a faint hiss as Khem stepped into the cold. Rain slicked his shoulders. His jacket shifted in the wind. The faint scent of antiseptic still clung to him.

He didn’t look back.

Behind him, the hospital lights blurred into a faint glow. Ahead, a black car waited under the covered entry. Without pausing, Khem walked toward it, water splashing beneath his boots. He opened the passenger door and slid inside, shutting it with a soft thud—a sound that sealed him away from everything outside.

Warmth hit him. Dry air. The faint scent of leather and old cologne. But the storm in his chest didn’t ease.

He sat still, hands clenched in his lap. His knuckles were pale. Fingertips pressing hard into the skin of his palms.

In the driver’s seat, the man didn’t move. He had waited nearly an hour like that—engine off, back straight, a quiet silhouette in the low light. His gaze stayed fixed on the hospital entrance, the glow of rain-smeared lights reflected in the windshield.

Khem didn’t need to look. He could feel the man’s presence—solid, familiar, just outside the edges of focus. Always there. Always silent.

“Drive to Shēn Old Villa,” Khem said, voice low. “Jingfeng Residential.”

The man’s hand hovered over the ignition. He didn’t start the car. Instead, he turned slightly, just enough to glance at Khem from the corner of his eye. His jaw was still. His expression unreadable—but not blank. Assessing.

“You sure about that?”

Khem turned to meet his gaze. The driver didn’t flinch. No alarm, no resistance—just quiet calculation, as if measuring what Khem wasn’t saying.

“What are you waiting for?” Khem snapped, the words sharper than he meant.

A pause.

The driver looked forward again. Rain streaked down the windshield in rivulets, catching the glow of parking lot lights. He exhaled, slow and steady through his nose.

“It’s not exactly a place we should go,” he said carefully.

Of course he understood. The man had served their family for nearly five years—not quite a bodyguard, not just a driver. Something in between. A shadow with a heartbeat. Always close, never intrusive. He knew the brittle threads still connecting two powerful families—a marriage that still held, if barely.

He had once worked for Khem’s sister.

And now—

Now she was gone.

But in the silence that followed, her final words still rang between them. Quiet. Unshakable.

Protect Khem.

Khem’s voice softened. “I know we shouldn’t. But I’m going to bring my sister back. I’m going to get Hima.”

The word—sister—hung in the car, thick with weight neither of them dared name.

At the sound of her name, something flickered across the man’s face. Not enough to read clearly. But it was there—recognition, loyalty. Maybe guilt.

He gave a slow nod. No words. Then he turned the key.

The engine hummed to life. The car pulled away from the hospital and into the soaked, waiting dark.

Rain pelted the windshield harder now, sharp and steady.

Outside, the world blurred into fog and light. The headlights cut through only a short stretch of road at a time—just enough to see the next turn.

The trip should have taken just over an hour. Sixty-four kilometers. But the weather dragged it out. The roads were slick. Every corner felt uncertain. The tires hissed across the wet asphalt. The driver’s grip on the wheel was rigid, his knuckles bone-white.

They didn’t speak.

Khem leaned his head against the cold window. The chill seeped into his skin. Raindrops ran down the glass in twisting paths. His fists hadn’t relaxed. Nails dug crescent-shaped dents into his palms.

His breath came uneven.

It had been three years since he’d seen her.

He was thirteen then.

Now he was sixteen. Taller. Sharper around the edges. Stronger.

But inside, the boy who cried the night she left still sat quietly, waiting.

At the villa…

Hima rose slowly from the edge of the bed. Every motion ached. Her fever still lingered, heat blooming beneath her skin. Her limbs felt heavy, her joints stiff—like moving through fog.

She stepped into the bathroom.

The mirror didn’t lie.

Dark shadows beneath her eyes. Skin too pale. Dry lips. Her posture slumped without her noticing.

She undressed and stepped into the shower.

Hot water spilled over her body, rinsing away sweat, fever, pheromones. Everything she didn’t want to carry into today.

She didn’t glance at the expensive dresses lined up in the wardrobe. They weren’t hers. They never had been. Instead, she knelt to open the bottom drawer—the one Aunt Lú had filled.

A quiet gift on her twentieth birthday. Her first in the Shen household. No party. No words from her husband. Just this small kindness from the only one who still saw her.

She held the garment briefly, as if warmth still clung to it, then slipped it on.

On the nightstand, a suppressant patch and an inhibitor shot waited—Aunt Lu’s silent, efficient preparation.

Hima didn’t hesitate.

She opened the sterile packet, peeled the patch, and pressed it to the back of her neck. The adhesive bit cold into her skin. A hiss followed. Activation. The blend would take minutes to mute her scent.

Then the shot.

She tapped out the air bubble and slid the needle into her upper arm. The burn was brief—a flare of heat, then dull ache.

She didn’t flinch.

“You’re sure?” Aunt Lu’s voice came from the doorway—gentle, even.

“If he finds out—”

“He won’t,” Hima replied, braiding her damp hair. Her voice trembled, just slightly. “Not today. Today, I just want to be Hima Ren. Not Mrs. Shēn. And I’ll be back before he knows.”

The gates to Shēn Old Villa loomed in the rain.

The car slowed. Stopped.

Khem stepped out.

Rain soaked through his clothes in seconds, but he didn’t care. The driver stayed inside, watching from the mirror.

Khem followed the stone path to the front entrance. Gravel crunched under his boots. His posture was tight. Jaw locked.

He pressed the doorbell.

A crackle from the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“I’m here for my sister,” Khem said, just loud enough.

A pause, then the lock clicked.

Aunt Lú opened the door. She wore a simple apron over her dress, hands calmly folded. Her face softened—just a little.

“You must be Khem,” she said quietly. “Please, come in.”

She stepped aside. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment—not familiarity, but sympathy.

The main hall was still as a cathedral. Cold. Grand. Silent.

Khem sat on the edge of a velvet sofa. Water dripped from his cloth. His boots left wet prints on the polished floor. His legs bounced slightly, tension in every nerve.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“She’s getting ready,” Aunt Lú replied evenly. “She’ll be down soon.”

He nodded.

Upstairs, Hima looked into the mirror one last time.

The fever was still there, faint under her skin, but her eyes were clear. She dabbed concealer beneath them, added a muted color to her lips—not for vanity, but to hide the exhaustion.

She didn’t want Khem to see how much she’d changed. How weak she felt. How long it had been.

Most of all, she didn’t want to worry her little brother.

She took a breath.

Straightened her shoulders.

And stepped into the hallway.

Each step down the smooth stone staircase was careful, quiet.

The air between them hung heavy with time.

Below, Khem looked up.

After three years, their eyes met—calm on the surface, but full of everything they hadn’t said.

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